Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Rosie leaned back on her pillow mountain and smiled. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Say it for me.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Oh, I think you know.’

  For a moment he looked bewildered, and then he smiled. And as he smiled, so the tears welled up in his eyes. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you really crack me up.’

  35

  Reine des Violettes

  If I had to choose just one Hybrid Perpetual, it would have to be this one.

  Just three days later Rosie Robertson died peacefully in her sleep. Nick was with her, holding her hand. There were no last words, just a sigh, and a great calm. He eased his hand out of hers, and kissed her forehead. Unable to stop the tears cascading down his face, he sat with his head in his hands for a while and wept, remembering nothing but the good times.

  Death was due to delayed shock, said the doctor. It happened quite often in people of advanced age when they had suffered a broken hip.

  At first Nick found it impossible to believe she had gone. The loss of Rosie’s company, her influence and her wise counsel had left him bereft. He would also miss her unpredictability, his exasperation with her, and the laughs they had shared. Yes. He would miss those more than anything.

  Victoria, too, took it hard. It was her first experience of death.

  Alex was a rock to them both, and a comforting shoulder to cry on. There were lots of tears, but Rosie had left many happy memories – and quite a lot of money. It was some time before Alex could come to terms with her bequest, and her daughter’s legacy. ‘For now,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I just leave it in the bank?’

  The day of the funeral was warm and sunny. There were few people at the Newport crematorium. Nick’s parents made it, and stood next to each other silently. There were half a dozen friends from Cheltenham, who had seen the announcement in The Times, Sophie and Nick, Alex and Victoria. Henry spent most of his time blowing his nose into a large red and white spotted handkerchief, and blaming the pollen from the flowers. Rosie would have liked that.

  There were no hymns, just prayers of thanksgiving. Rosie had always believed in God, but had not been a regular churchgoer and thought it would be hypocritical to have an overly religious ceremony. She had said as much in a letter she had lodged with her solicitor. She also asked that Nick read something for her. It took all his willpower to get through it, but get through it he did. With clarity and with great feeling he spoke the words of a poem that Rosie had loved:

  Do not stand at my grave and weep;

  I am not there. I do not sleep.

  I am a thousand winds that blow.

  I am the diamond glints on snow.

  I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

  I am the gentle autumn rain.

  When you awaken in the morning’s hush

  I am the swift uplifting rush

  Of quiet birds in circled flight.

  I am the soft stars that shine at night.

  Do not stand at my grave and cry:

  I am not there. I did not die.

  Sniffs and a fumbling for tissues followed, and then came the only piece of music in the short ceremony, which generated both smiles and tears as it rang out from the speakers at the front of the chapel. Rosie’s coffin disappeared to the strains of ‘Lara’s Theme’ from Dr Zhivago. Whether or not she had come into the world as a Russian princess she certainly went out as one.

  As they emerged into the sunlight, Nick’s parents came over to where he, Alex and Victoria stood. There were the usual family pleasantries – a little strained – and compliments on Nick’s having managed to get through the poem. Anna greeted Alex as some dowager might a visitor to her home, and Derek, in smart suit and camel coat with astrakhan collar, gave her a peck on both cheeks. He winked at Victoria, who smiled nervously.

  As they got into their cars and drove away, Nick noticed that his mother was tidying her hair and that his father was already on his mobile.

  Then there were the goodbyes and thanks to the friends who had taken the trouble to come from Cheltenham, and afterwards Nick, Alex, Victoria, Henry and Sophie gathered together to go off for lunch at the Red Duster.

  It was only then that Nick noticed the solitary figure laying a wreath of lilies under the card that bore Rosie’s name, where the family flowers had been placed. He was an old gentleman in a dark coat, tall, a little stooping, with iron-grey hair.

  Nick walked over and introduced himself. ‘Hello. I’m Nick Robertson. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said the old man, with a neat bow. He had a thick accent.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who you are,’ Nick confessed.

  The man bowed once more. ‘I am sorry. I should have introduced myself. I am Oleg Vassilievsky.’

  ‘Ah.’ Nick hesitated. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You must have known my grandmother.’ He was curious now.

  ‘Not exactly. But I was aware of her.’

  The confused expression on Nick’s face elicited more of an explanation.

  ‘Your grandmother was from Russia.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She was a Romanov.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, she thought she might have been, but we’ve discovered that it was very unlikely.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘She was a Romanov. Not a legitimate one, but a Romanov nevertheless.’

  Nick was incredulous. ‘How do you know?’

  The man smiled kindly. ‘We know all the members of the family. We try to keep track of them.’

  ‘That sounds a bit sinister.’

  Oleg Vassilievsky shrugged. ‘It is not intended to be. We like to think of it as loyal support.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Nick looked over his shoulder at Alex and Victoria, who were deep in conversation with Sophie. Then he asked, ‘Why have you never appeared before?’

  ‘We had rather lost track of Mrs Robertson until our attention was drawn to her.’ He nodded at Alex. Then he continued, ‘We endeavour to show our respects on occasions such as this.’

  Nick began to feel as though he were having a bad dream. ‘So who were her parents?’

  ‘Her father was an English naval officer.’

  ‘We’d worked that out. But what about her mother? It wasn’t really Grand Duchess Tatiana, was it?’

  ‘No, it was not.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘It was her sister, Grand Duchess Olga.’

  Nick looked for something on which to steady himself. He found nothing. After several seconds he managed to speak. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘We are sure,’ he said firmly.

  ‘But . . . what does this mean?’

  Oleg shook his head. ‘Very little now. Your grandmother is dead. We came to say goodbye. That is all.’ He offered his hand. Nick shook it and asked, ‘Who is “we”?’

  ‘You will not have heard of us. We are a small group of people loyal to the Russian royal family. We do not think that they should be forgotten.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Oleg bowed once more. ‘That is all. Please accept our condolences. A very good day to you.’

  He turned and walked towards a black car, whose engine was already running. He got into the rear seat, and as the car moved off he turned, waved, then disappeared from view.

  ‘You’re not saying much?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He jumped, startled.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Alex, patting his leg as they sat at the table in the Red Duster.

  ‘No. Just thinking.’ He smiled, giving her his full attention.

  ‘Well, it’s been quite a day, but I think she’d have been happy with her send-off.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Casually she asked, ‘Who was that man you were talking to?’

  ‘Just an old acquaintance of Rosie’s,’ Nick said.

  ‘He looked a bit scary.’

  ‘No. Not really. Just wa
nted to pay his last respects.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  One day he would tell her about the man. And about Rosie. But not now. For now he just wanted to take the two of them home, and try to start a new life. A normal life. A life as a husband, and as a father. When he felt the moment was right to ask them.

  He watched as the two of them smiled and chatted together. There was nobody with whom he would rather spend the rest of his life.

  His thoughts drifted off once more. To Rosie. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ he murmured. ‘And thanks for everything.’ And as he did so, all he could hear was the music from Dr Zhivago.